Hope of Morning
by fiadorable
Summary: Regina works nights as a 911 dispatcher and her neighbor down the hall, Robin, is a pediatric attending. They've been dancing around each other for years, but one cold morning, after a particularly bad night, things might be about to change. Trigger warnings will be posted on each individual chapter.
1. Bad Day

_Note: While not graphic, this story contains descriptions of domestic violence. They are all contained within the italicized portions near the beginning of the story (before Robin is introduced) and may be skipped without losing anything. When in doubt, though, do without. Additional notes at the end of the story._

* * *

Regina Mills is not a bad driver.

She's a _tired_ driver.

There's a (slight) difference.

She rolls her window up as she turns into the entrance to her apartment complex, twitching her fingers over the stereo's volume knob until the music trickles from the speakers instead of booming. Last thing she needs to top this day off is a noise complaint from a neighbor.

"Radio to 8410, copy a 10-57 at Sherwood Apartments," Regina murmurs to herself as she waits for the security gate to lift. "Check for an older model dark Mercedes playing Meatloaf at excessive levels in the parking deck. No further at 0634hrs."

At least now that she's off the roadway she can autopilot her way into a parking space. (Not next to the green Highlander; they put a dent in her passenger door last week.) She drives around and around the parking deck until the concrete swims before her eyes like oozing sand, slipping into a vacant slot near the stairs and twisting her keys in the ignition.

Echoes of the emergency line's shrill warble clatter between her ears, rising to the surface in the silence and stillness. Regina's fingers curl tight around the steering wheel.

 _No, I'm not doing this now. I made it all the goddamn way home without thinking about that call. Keep it together, Mills._

But the memory of her last 911 of the night strikes at a chink in her armor anyway, swallowing her like so much quicksand.

 _"What's your name?" Regina asks, coding the call as a domestic disturbance and stabbing the F12 key with her fourth finger to submit the call for dispatch. An electronic ping sounds further down the room as the call enters the pending queue._

 _"Belle. Oh, God, please hurry! He's breaking down the bathroom door!"_

 _"Belle, my name is Regina," she says, not bothering to give her badge number, protocol be damned. She needs to keep Belle calm and focused. "I'm gonna stay on the phone with you until the police get there, okay?"_

It would have been a large bathroom, Regina thinks, tapping her right thumb against the steering wheel, given the address on one of the more affluent streets. An expensive shade of gray coating the walls, offsetting the richness of the dark wood furnishings and stark white porcelain. Tiled floors, herringbone-patterned (that's back in vogue these days, right?) and heated against winter's chill or wet bare feet pruned from long bubble baths and steamy showers. A delicate crystal chandelier would hang over the large soaking tub nestled below a tasteful stained glass window.

The image swirls through Regina's mind, a reconstruction fabricated from too many hours watching home renovation shows on Netflix long after Henry's asleep, but the sharpest detail is the young girl, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four years old from the sound of her voice, cowering against the back wall, shaking, clutching a cell phone to her ear, tears dripping down her cheeks.

 _"Does anyone have any weapons?" Regina asks. She types as she talks (_ COMP ADV SUBJ BREAKING DOWN DOOR _) and refreshes the screen._

 _Are the police on their way yet? Yes, they are, good._

 _"He's got a cane he uses to walk," Belle says. "Can't you hear him?"_

 _Yes, she can hear him. Muffled by the door as he is, the slurred, Scottish lilt echoes through the room, funneling into the phone line with a tinny quality that doesn't make the words any less chilling._

 _"Who are you talking to, dearie?"_

Regina shivers, her left hand clenching around the door latch, the oversized cerulean "B2" painted on the concrete wall in front of her parking space blurring as her eyes shift further out of focus.

 _"Oh, please," Belle cries. "Please, please, please, where are the police?"_

 _Regina mutes her phone, pressing her thumb over the microphone on her headset to muffle her words for the recording, and shouts across the room, "Where the hell are those officers? This guy's breaking down the fucking door!"_

 _And then:_

 _"Belle, is there any way you can get to a safer place or move anything in front of the door?" Anything, anything at all. Give me something to work with._

 _"No, the windows don't open. It's a bathroom."_

 _"I know," Regina says, heartbeat screaming in her ears, pounding in her fingertips as she refreshes the unit status screen again. Again. "They're coming as fast as they can. I'm here—"_

 _"NO!"_

 _A crash. Voices screaming, acoustics amplifying and warping them until she can't make out anything being said (it sounds worse than it is, it sounds worse than it is,_ it sounds exactly like it is _), and then a sharp crack._

 _She dropped the phone, Regina thinks, the thought hovering in a small, unoccupied corner of her mind as she says Belle's name over and over again until the line goes dead._

 _The dial tone hums in her ear, mocking her as the day shift streams onto the dispatch floor to relieve her colleagues and herself._

 _Belle's phone is probably lying in pieces on the floor, crunching below her boyfriend's feet._

 _She disconnects the call. Dials the number again. Taps her thumb and first two fingers against the mouse under her right hand as Mary Margaret sets down her pink quilted bag next to the console, a frown on her round face as she takes in Regina's hunched shoulders._

 _"Hi, you've reached Belle—"_

 _Hang up. Dial again._

 _"Hi, you've—"_

 _Hang up. Dial again._

Crack!

The seatbelt locks across her chest as she jumps.

"Regina, are you alright?"

She blinks. Blinks again, and this time she's able to focus on the figure looming beyond the bastion of her door.

Dr. Robin Locksley, five year tenant of apartment 4313, six doors down from hers, steps back from her window, flashing her a contrite smile and a pantomimed apology. She stares at him, and then beyond him, distracted by the sunlight slipping through the sparse trees edging the parking deck. When she'd pulled into her parking space, the sky carried a smattering of stars and the waning moon. She squints, frowning at the pink flush of dawning day, until Robin calls to her again, the question mark dangling from her appellation snapping her back into the present.

She waves and offers a chagrined smile.

"I'm sorry," Robin leads with as she slides out of the car. He shifts his duffel bag further up on his shoulder and closes the door for her once she's clear. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"No, it's fine. I need to be getting upstairs." She checks her watch, and sure enough, she's wasted at least fifteen minutes staring into nothing. God, when was the last time she'd been sucked into a call like that?

It's just that she's tired, always; that's the price she pays for working nights and snagging that extra dollar on her paycheck for throwing her circadian rhythm into a blender. But nights give her sunrises with Henry, allow her to be a classroom mom even on days she works, if she stays up late, and an easy commute against traffic going both ways.

 _Get it together, Mills. You're a goddamn professional_.

A late goddamn professional.

Finding a reliable overnight sitter who doesn't charge more than she makes in an hour is hard enough. She'd like to keep both Emma and Ashley around as long as possible, which means not begrudging Emma the chance to catch a bail jumper, as she had last night, and arriving home early enough for Ashley to make her art history class.

"Long night?" Robin asks, leaning against the side of her car as she pops the trunk and pulls out her messenger bag and purse. "You're usually already up the stairs by the time I get here."

True. She doesn't run into him post-shift unless she hits all the red lights between the dispatch center and home or he leaves the hospital earlier than usual. Neither happens often.

Regina loops her bag over her head and pulls her hair from underneath the black nylon strap, shrugging her purse onto her shoulder, and pauses to consider him. He's not wearing his dark blue scrubs as per the norm. Instead, a forest green tee with deep creases cutting across his torso peeks from the vee of his half-zipped leather jacket, and a light pair of jeans instead of his normal dark wash hangs loose off his hips, bereft of a belt. He's rumpled and smiling at her, but there's a tightness tucked into the corners of his mouth. Maybe he's had as rough a night as she has.

"Last call of the night was a bad domestic," she admits. "Some guy having a reaction to new medication."

"Ah."

"Yeah."

"Want to talk about it?"

Sure. Of course. But the thing is, it's not _just_ that call. It's Henry spilling coffee down her front as she was walking out the door, the belligerent drunk woman who cursed her seven ways to Saturday, her mother's incessant, passive-aggressive texting, the man who cried softly between her questions after finding his teenage son dead from an overdose in his living room, and the thousand other smaller irritations of the job scratching their way under her skin. Her call at shift change was an unexpected uppercut to the chin after the early morning lull.

But even thinking about trying to explain it all sinks exhaustion that much deeper into her bones, burrowing into her marrow, infiltrating her blood, pulling her _down_ even as the residual adrenaline tugs her _up_.

"I'm too keyed up to even form the words." She lowers the lid of the trunk, but stops before closing it, shaking her head, shoulders bobbing with a rueful chuckle. "And yet I don't even remember much of the drive home."

Robin frowns and pushes himself off the side of the car. "Regina, you know you can call me for a ride if you're ever too tired at the end of your shift."

She sighs, and shuts the lid of her trunk with a bit more force than necessary, wincing as the twin kernels of a headache take root at her temples. "Robin, you work at Children's Memorial. The dispatch center isn't really on your way home."

"I would prefer going out of my way to see you home safe rather than find you being carted into the ED as my next patient because you fell asleep at the wheel."

"You're a pediatric attending," Regina says, jabbing him in the side as he walks around the end of the car, smirking as he yelps and hunches his torso. "I'm a few years older than your normal patient."

"I'd have the ambulance reroute you to my hospital and make an exception." He grabs her hand as she darts forward to jab him again, and her smirk fades as he cradles it between both of his hands, rubbing warmth into her chilled fingers. "And that's not the point."

"What is the point, then?" she asks, her voice light as the words escape her lips inside a silver plume of fog. Keeping eye contact with him feels too intimate, too loaded for this late in her day. She drops her gaze to his fingers on hers, frowning slightly.

They've had clear physical boundaries with each other since day one, an invisible line drawn in the sand, bolstered at first by his marriage and her son, and then after the divorce by the surprise arrival of his son, Roland, seven months later. Nothing like little eyes and ears trained your direction to make one conscious of every touch, every word said in front of them.

But recently, recently the line has smudged a bit. Like last Wednesday at the park, when he'd rubbed her shoulders while she was studying for her exam. And now this. This warming of her fingers as they stand at the base of the stairs, a tiny frown on his own face as though he's displeased with how long it's taking to soothe away the cold.

He seems to realize the weight of the moment, and releases her hand, stepping out of her personal space. "Just that I care fo—about you and Henry." He shrugs and hitches his bag further up his shoulder.

Regina tucks her hair behind her ear and licks her lips. "I should get upstairs."

"Of course," he says, stepping back to allow her to continue in front of him. "Allow me to escort you to your apartment."

"I don't think I'm in danger of falling asleep mid-stride."

"Perhaps I have an ulterior motive, Madame Know-It-All."

Exhaustion spurs on her heart, nothing more. That or the fact that they're trudging up the third of four flights of stairs. Still, the _Oh?_ she responds with is a tad on the breathy side.

"I was wondering if you'd let me have a word with Emma before she ducks out."

Disappointment radiates like a heartburn in her chest. "She's not here tonight," she says, wrapping the last scrap of her professional detachment around the words like a clear, protective coating. "She had to call in Ashley at the last minute."

Okay, a little of the petulant heartburn-that-isn't might have leaked through that last part.

The man's not blind. She and Emma have been friends since Henry was pink and scrappy and fit in the crook of her arm, and Robin's run into her several times over the years as she's arrived at her apartment to watch Henry for the night, always with a kind word for her. She's gorgeous, too, with long blonde hair and legs that go for days. The question isn't _why wouldn't he want to talk to her_ ; it's _why he's waited so long to do so in the first place_.

"Emma, Ashley, doesn't matter. I need a referral for a night sitter, and I know you and Emma go way back, but I was hoping she would know someone. I'm not trying to poach her, physician's honor."

"I'd like to see you try," she snorts as the weight in her chest dissolves and evaporates. "I inspire great loyalty."

"Of that I have no doubt," he says, and holds the building door open for her with a sweeping bow that would earn him a tepid eye roll or smirk if she wasn't tired as all get out. She settles for a regal incline of her head, and ignores the flip-flop-splat of her stomach as he grins at her, dimples winking in the security light.

"Having trouble getting your shifts swapped for when Roland comes to visit next week?" she asks over her shoulder, sorting through her key ring.

"Actually he'll be staying with me on a more permanent basis starting month after next."

She draws up short in front of her door. "Is Marian okay?" Her hand falls to his forearm before she can stop herself. They'd never been close, she and his ex-wife, but they'd been friendly enough before the divorce two years ago, and they're cordial now on the rare occasions they pass in the hallway as she drops off Roland for his bi-weekly visitation.

"She's fine. Great, actually," Robin says, a crooked smile hanging on his face as he covers her hand with his own. "She's been awarded that grant to study climate change in Antarctica."

"That's wonderful!" Regina says, eyes widening as she smiles. "She's been working on that project since you first moved in."

Robin's smile assumes a pained edge, and she quickly backpedals.

"I mean, not wonderful that she's going to miss out on a year of Roland's life, but wonderful that her career is doing well?"

"That's the gist of it," Robin says, tacking on a dry chuckle. "I'm thrilled for her, truly, because she's been working toward this for years as you said, but I can't shakes this edge of anxiety. Not that I don't want to see my son, I do. More like nervousness at being a full-time single parent for a whole year."

Regina squeezes his arm. "Robin, you're going to be great, and I'm sure Ashley will be able to recommend someone." She unlocks the door, but stops short just over the threshold.

Robin bumps into her, pushes her forward a pace or two. "What's wrong?" he murmurs, one hand on her shoulder to steady them both.

She frowns as she hangs her keys on the hook by the door, one hand clasping his fingers briefly to reassure him nothing's _wrong_ , just _odd_. Darkness and silence cloak the apartment; even the small lamp Henry always leaves lit for her on the kitchen counter is a stark silhouette in the light from the hallway. He should be awake and eating breakfast, or at least in the shower. Ashley knows their routine, even if she's not their regular sitter.

Regina steps further into the apartment and flicks on the kitchen light switch. The track lighting spills into the living room, illuminating a lumpy shape curled in the recliner. She sighs and drops her bags on the kitchen island, leaving Robin leaning against the counter, arms folded across his chest, as she trudges into the living room.

With a gentle but firm hand, she nudges the sleeping girl's shoulder. "Ashley. Wake up, dear."

The college student coughs once, twice, and then blinks bleary green eyes at her. "Ms. Mills? What are you doing here?" she croaks, clearing her throat and sniffing hard as she digs in the seam of the chair. She pulls her cell phone loose and taps frantically on the screen. "What time is it?"

"It's almost seven," Regina says. "Are you alright, dear?"

"It's this new allergy medication they have me on. Knocks me out like a grand slam and doesn't work worth a damn." She groans, wipes her face as she swings the footrest down. "Henry's sick."

"What? Why didn't you call me?"

"It's just the flu, I think. He woke up around midnight with a fever and a terrible cough. I've been pumping him full of water and cough syrup for the last few hours."

"I would have come home," Regina snaps, her headache crackling like a spark feeding on kindling. "Next time let me know."

She's being overly sharp with the girl, she knows. Every cough or fever over 99.9 degrees is subject to a critical eye this time of year, now that they know Henry's allergic to the flu vaccine. The pounding inside her skull swells. Her day has just become that much more complicated. There are doctors and schools to call, medicines to measure out, tissue stocks to check, and soup to make. None of which can be done while sleeping.

"I'm sorry," Ashley mumbles, cradling her head between her palms. "He went right back to sleep after I gave him the medicine, so I thought—" She stops to cough wetly into her elbow.

Regina lays the back of her hand against Ashley's forehead. "You're burning up. Go home in case you're coming down with something, too."

"Okay," she says, sliding her textbooks into her bookbag and bidding them a hasty, phlegmy farewell.

Regina sighs, one hand propped on her hip and the other pressing against a tender knot at the base of her skull. "Sorry about that," she says, turning back to Robin, who's still standing in the kitchen, a sympathetic half-smile gracing his face as he leans on the kitchen island. "I'll get you Emma's phone number in just a minute. Make yourself at home, as always."

"Of course," Robin says. "Take your time."

She smiles, a small wince of a thing, and heads down the hallway to check on her son. She pops her head into his room, _tsk_ ing at the crumpled tissues carpeting the floor near his bed, the trash can overflowing. He's snoring, an ugly, wet sound that wraps around her heart and clenches when he coughs in his sleep.

She was supposed to get her flu shot last week, but she'd overslept, and Henry neglected to tell her about a book report due the next day. The whole evening had been spent cutting apart cereal boxes and gluing them together for his project instead. Guilt lances through her gut as he coughs again. He could have picked the germs up at school as easily as from her, but if she had brought it home from work…

If only she'd gone for her shot.

If only Ashley had called her.

If only, if only.

The world spins on the energy expended wishing _if only_.

She ducks into the hall bathroom for over-the-counter painkillers to ease her own headache, pleased to discover the red children's cold and flu acetaminophen bottle anchoring a sheet of paper covered in Ashley's writing sitting by the sink. The fierce edge of her ire at not being called bleeds away as she skims the detailed, impromptu log. She sets a reminder on her phone to give him his next installment in three hours. She'll leave him be until then.

For a moment she considers measuring out an adult dosage of Henry's medicine, but the cherry flavor sets her teeth on edge. She paws through the drawer stuffed with meds serving as their first aid station, frowning as her fingers sift through Iron Man Band-Aids, pink punch-through tablets of bismuth, and squeezed-thin tubes of hydrocortisone and antibiotic ointment. No painkillers, though.

A soft knock on the open door halts her search. She glances up and meets Robin's eyes in the mirror.

"How is the patient?" he asks, one arm propped on the doorframe.

"Sleeping, for now," she says. A curlicue of surprise loops through her chest as she catches his gaze drop not once but twice to her ass. She blinks at him in the mirror, processing, too tired to think or respond, and clears her throat as she pushes the drawer closed with her hip, turning to face him with her arms crossed over her middle.

"Can I be of any assistance?" he asks, and she'll be damned if his voice isn't sexier when he's whispering. "I could check him over, if you'd like."

 _Oh, I can think of several ways you can be of assistance._

 _Stop that. Stop that right now._

"No, that's not necessary. I'll let him sleep until his next dose and then take him to the pediatrician. In fact," she says, turning around to dig through the drawer again. "I'm going to take a nap as soon as I find something for my headache that's not artificially flavored to taste like cavities."

"Can I interest you in some Excedrin?"

"Bless you," she says, smiling.

"I carry a bottle in my bag. Come on," he says, pushing off the wall and jerking his head toward the living room.

He plops down on the couch and unzips his duffel bag on the coffee table, brushing aside various medical miscellany and a plastic bag that crinkles, setting off a corresponding throb inside her skull, until she hears the familiar hollow rattle of pills in a bottle. He holds the bottle up, triumphant, and that little curlicue of surprise warms and unwinds as he smiles at her. Robin makes quick work of the cap, but his smile fades as he peers inside. "I'm afraid my stash has run low," he says. "But you're more than welcome to the remnants."

She hesitates, shifts her weight to her other foot. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. You've had a worse night than me, and you have a sick child to deal with today when you should be sleeping. You need this more than I do."

She accepts the bottle with a grateful _Thank you_ _,_ and walks into the kitchen, palming water into her mouth and tossing the pills back in her throat. "Can I get you anything?"

"No, thank you. I should get going so you can get some sleep." He zips his bag and walks to the other side of the kitchen island. "If you need anything, doctor's opinion, more Excedrin, sounding board, I'm just down the hall."

Regina smiles. "I appreciate that."

Robin returns the smile, and as he walks past her he brushes his hand over her shoulder. "Sleep fast." Then he's gone, but his touch lingers on her shoulder as his footsteps fade down the hallway.

 _Mills, you have things to do. Stop mooning over your neighbor_ _._

First, she dials Henry's school and leaves a voicemail for the attendance officer. The pediatrician's opens at 0800hrs. No sense in calling before then. She can grab an hour of sleep on the couch while she's waiting, and if they can't see him before 1000hrs, she'll take him up to the urgent care center.

Before her nap, though, she needs to get out of this damn uniform. She checks on Henry one more time on the way to her bedroom (still sleeping, snoring, and her heart clenches again), and then strips a line of clothing from her bedroom doorway to the closet until she's standing in her underwear, rifling through her pajama drawer. She threads her arms through a black tank top and steps into a pair of fleece-lined gray sweats, sighing as the soft fabric slides against her skin. As far as uniforms go, hers isn't uncomfortable, just a polo and khaki or black BDUs, but anything worn for fourteen hours gets old.

Her bed beckons, sheets still rumpled and thrown back from her frantic departure after sleeping through her alarm, but if she falls into bed she might sleep through the alarm again, and that won't do, not today. She picks up her trail of clothes in reverse as she heads out of the room, tossing them into the hamper in the hall bathroom, and then closes every curtain in the apartment before flopping down on the couch and pulling the blue afghan from the easy chair over her shoulders.

The time is now 0649hrs. Alarm set for 0800hrs. Sleep. She rests her arm across her eyes to block out the slivers of sun the blackout curtains never seem to grasp, and evens out her breathing.

Sleep. Relax. Breathe.

" _Ma'am, I need you to take a deep breath for me, and then tell me where you are." Regina thumbs down the volume on her headset jack, hoping it will ease the cacophony on the other end of the line into something coherent that won't overload the tiny speaker in her ear. She glances up at the information displayed on her screen, starts punching the GPS coordinates into the mapping system in case the woman on the line can't gather herself enough to answer. Not ideal, but better than nothing._

" _Number three Temptation Avenue," the caller gasps. "My boyfriend's having a bad reaction to his new medication. I'm locked in the upstairs bathroom. Oh, please hurry!"_

Regina flops her arm down to her side.

 _Out, damned call, out! Get out of my head._

She's been known to drink the occasional beer or glass of wine after work, after Henry's safely off to school, to unwind, but she's careful not to rely on it too much. Careful to not make it a habit, to slip into the eager arms of addiction like her mother. Cora is a mean drunk, a functioning alcoholic in every sense of the term, and Regina would rather not expose Henry to that kind of vitriol. Her temper is short enough as it is.

But today. Today, if Henry weren't sick, she'd crack open the hard cider nestled in the back of her fridge and down a few before trying to sleep, to relax, forget. But she needs to be able to drive, and that means sober and with some degree of rest.

" _Why aren't they here yet?"_

" _They're coming, Belle," Regina says, fingers flying over the keyboard as she types updates into the call window. "They're coming as fast as they can. Stay with me."_

It's one of the worst parts of her job. The not knowing how things turn out. Most of the time she's able to distance herself, battle through her shift with the delicate mixture of empathy and hardheadedness necessary to be compassionate but firm with the callers, to take no shit from the officers. Today she was just… off. And she's paying for that lapse in her defenses now.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table. She slides it off the edge and squints at the illuminated screen. It's a message from Robin.

"Sorry if this wakes you," she reads. "But I've found more Excedrin should you need it later."

Must he be so considerate? She drops the phone to her chest and assumes her last pose, arm across her face. She sucks a deep lungful of air through her nose, holds it for a few seconds, and then puffs out her cheeks as she exhales. Fuck it.

"Do you mind coming back over for a few minutes?" she types, and then tosses the phone back to the coffee table as she stands, wrapping the afghan around her shoulders. She unlocks the door, stops by the kitchen to grab a bottle of water, and returns to the couch, twisting the cap off the bottle and taking a healthy slug of water. That's how he finds her when he lets himself into her apartment with a soft knock, sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, chugging water as though she's fresh out of the desert.

"Tell me about your night?" she asks, wiping her arm across her mouth, empty bottle dangling by its lip from her second and third fingers. "You're in your spare clothes. Something happened."

He smiles at her, an almost-smirk, and closes the door behind him. "I tell you mine, you tell me yours, then?"

"Something like that."

"As milady wishes," he says. "Scoot over."

She complies, sliding to the opposite end of the couch as he plants himself in the corner. He plops one of the soft beige throw pillows in his lap and beckons for her to lie down.

When she stares at him, unmoving, he pats the pillow. "Come on," he urges. "I know you're tired, but I suspect that brilliant brain of yours won't stop cartwheeling long enough for you to get any sleep."

"What makes you think you know me so well?"

"Five years of watching the gears turn behind those lovely brown eyes of yours. And if you'd been able to sleep there's not a force on heaven or earth short of Henry's imminent distress that would have made you respond to a mere text message after the kind of night you look to have had."

He's right. Arrogant bastard with his cheeky grin and his blue eyes sparking despite the weariness shading them. She hikes an eyebrow and purses her lips, but stretches out on the cushions. She won't lay her head in his lap though. That's a hair too intimate, a pinch too far across that murky line she keeps telling herself is there.

(It's there, dammit.)

So she yanks the pillow from his lap before she lands, and curls up next to him, arms and legs folded in on herself below the afghan, allowing the crown of her head to press against the outside of his thigh, and even that sends a shivery jolt through her abdomen. God, she's pathetic.

Robin seems nonplussed by her change of plans, draping his arm across the back of the couch and propping his foot against the leg of her coffee table (a compromise of sorts set in place long ago to keep his feet from the impeccable surface she sets her coffee on every morning). He hums deep in his throat as he settles. If she pressed her ear to his chest, the warm sound would rumble from his body into hers, like thunder unfurling during a lazy summer storm, and she sucks in a heavy breath through her nose, tempering it a bit to turn it into a yawn. His fingertips brush her shoulder for a second (lightning answering his hum in her gut) as he adjusts one last time, retreating almost before she's realized they've touched.

"Also," he continues. "I'm betting my excruciatingly detailed account of stitching up little Bobby Foster's pinky finger not once but twice last night and the gobs of paperwork that accompanied it will have you out like a downed traffic light in no time."

"Are you?" She shifts, trying to shake off the unsettling feelings he's stirred in her exhausted, vulnerable state, but she only ends up wedging herself closer to the back of the couch, her head now pressed to his hip rather than the meat of his thigh. He grunts in surprise, arm dropping off the back of the couch and landing along her side.

"Sorry," he murmurs, and he leans forward to move again, but her hand darts out, fingers pressing to his knee.

"You're fine," she says. "This is fine." Because it is fine, she realizes, having the weight of his arm along the length of her torso, and there's a moment she's sure they're both holding their breath, afraid to breathe out lest the fragile bubble of intimacy they've stumbled into collapse under the weight of acknowledgement. But breathe they must, and Regina releases hers with a deep whoosh that carries some of the tensions she's stored up from her shift. "Bobby Foster," she prompts, squeezing his knee before pulling her hand below the blanket once more.

"Right. Bobby Foster and his insufferable pinky finger." He clears his throat, allows his arm to fall heavy at her waist as he relaxes into his story. "The first thing you must know about young Master Foster is that he's a tragically accident-prone seven-year-old who, for the good of the public and the sake of his parents' bank accounts, should probably use safety scissors for the rest of his life."

Regina snorts and closes her eyes as he begins weaving the tale of his night, darting from patient to patient with varying levels of detail and gore. They play this game with each other from time to time, the retelling of their midnight escapades, the macabre, the insane, the hilarious, and the soul-shattering. It offers them both a kind of catharsis, talking out their nights with someone who has an intrinsic understanding of what it's like to go from peace and quiet to the sky falling and hellfire breaking loose in an instant, every day.

Her headache begins to fade at last, soothed away by the tide of quick-release capsules. The lull of Robin's voice combined with the absent sweep of his thumb against her side unties the moorings of her mind, and she drifts into the arms of slumber.

* * *

Some time later, the couch dips, and he's careful, so careful to try not to disturb her as he stands that she keeps her eyes closed. She stretches her legs, sighs at the slight ache from being folded and closed in on herself, and bites back a moan as the sickly sweet nausea of interrupted sleep clings to her insides. Socked feet swish across the carpet, shuffling back and forth, and she cracks her eyelids for a moment. Robin's made himself at home, then, sneakers tucked beneath the coffee table, the left one tipped on its side with the laces pooling in limp curls on the floor.

"Good morning, this is Dr. Locksley. How are you, Beatrice?" Robin says. He paces on the other side of the coffee table, one hand clutching her emergency contact list from the refrigerator, the other holding his phone to his ear. "Wonderful. I need to set up an appointment for a patient with the flu or possibly a nasty sinus infection. Can you help me with that, Beatrice?"

He doesn't have to do this. This is above and beyond, and she should be the one calling in, after all. But then he gives Henry's name and birthdate to the receptionist, and warmth fizzes in her stomach. She hadn't realized he'd been paying attention all this time.

Robin pauses his pacing, and glances down, still talking to the receptionist. Regina catches his eye and mouths _Thank you_ as she grabs for her phone. Half past eight. He must have silenced her alarm before she woke.

She snuggles back into the pillow and pulls the blanket around her shoulders again, unable to decide if she's annoyed or charmed that he's let her sleep longer. Maybe both, she thinks as Robin crouches beside the couch, thumbing his phone off and placing his hand over hers.

"I hope you don't mind me calling your pediatrician and throwing about a bit of professional clout," he says.

"Not at all."

"Good. They'll be ready for you whenever you want to go in, then."

"Thank you," she says, clearing the sleep from her throat. She pulls her fingers from under his and lays her palm across the back of his hand. "You didn't need to do that."

"Nonsense." He rests his elbow on the arm of the couch, his hand dipping down to brush a lock of hair back from her face. "Are feeling all right? You're not getting sick, too, are you?"

"No, just a little rough around the edges," she says, closing her eyes as his thumb continues to sweep against her temple. Her headache has all but disappeared, thank goodness, though she wouldn't say no to several more hours of sleep.

"Are you ready to hear the story of why I'm wearing my spare clothes instead of my scrubs?" he asks in a near whisper, as though he's afraid she's fallen asleep on him again.

"Yes," she says, opening her eyes, smiling sheepishly up at him through her lashes. She does want to hear why.

Robin sucks in a sobering breath, his mouth settling into a grim line, and Regina schools her face appropriately, listening. "I wasn't paying attention where I was walking and I ran into one of the nurses at shift change. Coffee, piping hot, all down my front and his."

Of all the insufferable, stupid, idiotic… "You bastard!" She squeezes his hand, rapping his fingers lightly with her own as she laughs despite herself. "You had me thinking some awful thing had happened."

"It _was_ awful. Those were my favorite set of scrubs!" Robins says, the most unapologetic grin she's ever seen lighting his face and melting her ire. "I'm sorry, but you seemed to latch on to the idea we'd both had shit shifts, and I didn't want to burst your rather fragile-seeming bubble."

She levels a glare at him, pursing her lips, but there's little heat remaining. He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. Her mouth drops open at the gentle brush of his lips against her skin, the warmth of his breath ruffling her hair.

And then he freezes.

Robin sits back, hard, his own mouth slightly agape, brow stricken, darkening his face. "Regina, I'm sorry. I don't know what came over me."

"No," she says. "It was nice."

"Nice."

"Yes." Regina wets her lips with the tip of her tongue, a delicate frisson of heat shuddering through her as his eyes drift down to her mouth, mimicking her movements with his own tongue, his own lips.

This was never her plan, to fall for her friend, her neighbor, even after his divorce, but if she's honest with herself, this moment has been a long time coming. From the nervous edge of hope on his face, he's realized it as well.

"Regina?" he murmurs. "May I kiss you?"

She nods.

He shifts forward onto his knees, trails a hand over the curve of her cheek before tilting her face up ever so slightly to touch his lips to hers. He's soft and warm, and he tastes like coming home after an age away, smells like a warm summer breeze. She curls a shy hand around the corner of his jaw, thumb brushing a wide crescent across the light five o'clock shadow stippling his skin. Her mouth moves against his, and together their breathing staccatos into short, gasping pants. She rolls onto her back and pulls him over her, cocking one knee in the air so he can settle with one leg on either side of hers.

They kiss lazily, mouths slanting over each other's in slow sweeps, noses bumping, half-smothered giggles slipping through parted lips as teeth clack and hands wander. By the time they break for air, foreheads touching, a slow-burning flame of contentment and desire warms her belly.

"You are quite a good kisser," he says, nuzzling her nose with his.

Regina smiles, snatching another lingering kiss from his lips. "I have many talents. This is merely one of them."

"I look forward to discovering them all, if you'll allow me."

"Perhaps," she cheeks.

"I should go. Let you sleep awhile longer."

He moves to shift away from her, but she pulls him back with hands curled around his triceps.

"Or you could stay," she says, trying not to let hope bleed too freely around the edges of her words.

"I could stay."

He scoots to the side, wedging himself between her hip and the couch cushions, and she shifts back to her side to give him more room. He winds his arm around her waist, tucks her body close to his, and sighs into the bend of her neck.

She wonders if lying here with her feels like it does to lie with him, like fitting a puzzle piece in place, the subtle snap of interlinking parts, of dips and curves and chaos controlled.

All of the stress she's bottled up from her shift, her concern for Henry, the powerful rush and ache of hormones he's unlocked, everything screams along the neurons in her brain like a series of tiny freight trains, fighting for her attention. Until gradually there is quiet. There is peace. There is her hand curling around the soft edges of his and a strong heartbeat thump-thumping against her spine. A tickling rush of breath whispering over her bare shoulder where the strap of her tank top has slipped off.

"You don't have to tell me what happened," Robin says, lips brushing her neck as he speaks. "But I promise you, Regina, you are doing good in the world, even if you don't feel that way."

She sniffles and wipes her cheek on the couch cushion. Sends something like a prayer out into the universe for the young woman on her call. Pulls Robin's arm tighter around her, and then closes her eyes and sleeps.

* * *

 _The (U.S.) National Domestic Violence Hotline_

 _Chat/Information:_

 _Phone: 1-800-799-7233_

 _TTY: 1-800-787-3224_


	2. Breakfast

Regina's apartment glows with the television's soft, blue light as Robin lets himself in with his key. It's early, still. Late for him, late for Regina as well once she arrives home from work in half an hour, but early for the night-sleepers.

Emma raises her head and squints in his direction as he closes and locks the door behind him. She must have fallen asleep on the couch, he thinks, taking in her purple, fuzzy sock-clad foot propped on the back cushions, the open bag of crisps clutched to her chest like an American football, and the faint hum of early morning infomercials spilling into the room.

"Is it time already?" she mumbles, flopping her leg down to the arm of the couch. "Feels like I just closed my eyes."

"It is," Robin says, scooting into the kitchen and popping on the light over the stove. "But I'll manage fine solo until Henry's alarm goes off if you'd like to sleep more."

Emma grunts and rolls over, tugging the afghan tighter across her body after she drops the crisps onto the coffee table. "Don't make too big of a mess or all the goodwill you're building up with her is gonna be blown out the window."

"Duly noted."

Robin pulls a package of eggs from the fridge, along with a stick of butter and the carton of milk, and then tugs a loaf of bread sitting on the counter towards the stove.

Mixing bowl, check. Fork, check. Spatula, check. Frying pan. Where the devil is the frying pan?

He ducks his head into the cabinets, pokes through every conceivable cranny of the kitchen to no avail. Regina has a frying pan. He's seen it before.

Thick, crisping turkey bacon sizzled on the stove while Regina held a fussy, infant Roland, dish towel tossed haphazardly over the shoulder of her work polo, and reassured him that no, his son did not hate him, he was just adjusting to being away from his mum for the first time, his first weekend alone with dad.

Robin smiles, index finger looped over the pull on the upper cabinet as the warmth of the memory spreads through his chest.

She'd been a big help that day, had thwacked him hard with a spatula when he'd begun spiraling into a vortex of parenting inadequacy fears and ordered him to get a grip, change his clothes, and heat up another bottle of formula. He'd snapped out of his funk and done as she bade, and the rest of the weekend progressed without further incident.

Which does not solve his current predicament.

Fortunately, Henry stumbles out of his bedroom just as he's about to pester Emma for the cookware's secret location, his red and blue superhero pajamas rucked up at the ankle and waist as an over-large yawn claims his face.

"Good morning, Sir Henry," Robin says, smiling as he closes the upper cabinet door. "Any idea where your mum has the frying pan hidden?"

"Dishwasher." Henry walks around the counter and lands heavily on a bar stool, both elbows slumped on the the kitchen island with his chin balancing precariously on the heels of his palms as he watches Robin tug open the dishwasher. "You started without me. Operation French Toast is supposed to be a joint venture."

Robin frowns, fingers curling around the pan's sleek black handle. He sets it on the stove and then turns to lean on the counter until he's eye level with Henry. "I haven't forgotten. I got here a few minutes early and wanted to have everything ready to go when you woke up, that's all."

Henry's brow smoothes and he nods. "Okay."

A whisper of relief ruffles through Robin's chest. The last thing he wants is Henry feeling left out in his own house. He glances over his shoulder to the list of words clipped to the refrigerator door with a _Finding Nemo_ magnet. "Venture is one of your spelling words, is it not?"

With practiced ease, Henry covers his eyes with his hand and recites, "V-e-n… t-u-r-e." He parts two fingers to peek at Robin for the results.

"Excellent," Robin says, pushing himself into a standing position. "Now, would you like to do the honors and crack the first egg?"

"Okay." Henry slips off his chair and nudges a small step stool into the kitchen, wincing as he kicks it a little too hard, striking the base of the cabinet and earning a joint, _Careful_ , from both Emma and Robin. "Sorry," he mumbles, stepping up to the counter, now the proper height. "Can you pass me a fork, please?"

"Of course." Robin places the requested utensil in the base of the glass bowl and hands it over along with the package of eggs.

Henry frowns as he cracks the first shell, emptying the slippery contents over the lip of the bowl with both hands. "Where's the rest of the stuff?"

"What am I missing?" Robin asks, slicing a gob of butter from the stick and tossing it into the pan. It's been years since he's eaten french toast, and now that he thinks about it, he's never actually made it either, but this is what Henry had suggested last night when he'd popped in for a quick chat with Emma about one of the girls she'd recommended to babysit Roland.

With a heavy sigh, Henry points to the cabinet at Robin's left shoulder. "Vanilla extract and cinnamon. Don't you know anything?"

"Henry." Emma's warning floats over from the living room, and he grimaces, apologizing.

"Why don't you show me how you and your mum make it then, yeah?" Robin suggests. "Does she keep a recipe handy? Something written out that we can work from?"

 _Aside from a grumpy eight-year-old's memory_ _._

He's not much of a cook, never has been, but he's confident he can produce at least a mediocre miracle from instructions.

"Um… Emma, did you bring your tablet with you?" Henry asks, hopping down from the footstool. At her mumbled affirmative, he walks over to her faded-yellow backpack and unzips it, pawing through the contents. He pulls out a slim black rectangle and starts tapping at the screen as he returns to the kitchen. "Here," he says, sliding it toward Robin on the island. "That's the one she uses."

Robin spins the device around until he can see the recipe right side up. He scans the ingredients and directions, chewing absentmindedly on his lower lip. Okay, then. This isn't too different from the version in his own (apparently) unenlightened repertoire. He glances up, finding Henry resting his chin on his folded arms on the countertop.

"Is it too complicated?" Henry asks, a wide swath of innocence painted across his face.

Robin narrows his eyes playfully at the evil little smirk begging to dance on the boy's lips. A crooked halo dangling over his sleep-tousled head would not be out of place, he thinks. He is his mother's son.

"I think we'll manage alright, if you'll help me." Robin tosses his head toward the counter behind him, and Henry nods, smirk fading into a more genuine smile as he climbs atop the footstool again. "This is how she likes her french toast, then? She'll be happy with this?"

"Well, she's never exactly _happy_ on Sunday mornings when she's working," Henry says, taking care as he taps each egg on the edge of the counter. "You know, cause she's still got one more day of work. But I don't think she'll be mad." He fishes a few scraps of shell from the sticky yolks in the bowl as Robin collects the remaining ingredients.

"Hmm. Well, we're going to try to change 'not exactly happy' to 'approaching happy' at the very least."

Robin turns the heat on under the pan to melt the butter as Henry mixes the eggs, vanilla, milk, and cinnamon together, and he has to admit, it smells divine. They dip piece after piece of bread into the mixture, coating them until gooey yellow curtains drip from the crusts, and then Robin tips the slices into the pan two at a time.

He keeps a weather eye on the microwave clock. With any luck they'll have timed the first batch to be ready the moment Regina walks through the door, but if not, they can nibble while they start round two.

As Robin flips the bread, Henry digs through the refrigerator and emerges with a half-picked over plastic carton of strawberries and an aerosol can of whipped cream, a plastic bottle of syrup dangling from his left two fingers. "Leave the cinnamon out, please. Emma and I like it sprinkled on top."

"Thanks, kid," Emma calls, still a misshapen lump of a burrito in the dim light.

"Got your back," he replies, and Robin shakes his head at the two. Peas in a pod, they are, though it's nothing compared to the three of them, Regina, Henry, and Emma all together.

Robin reaches dutifully for the requested spice between flipping pieces of toast and passes it to Henry, who's begun arranging a sort of assembly station for their breakfast on the kitchen island behind him. "How many pieces will your mum eat, you think?"

"Um, it depends. Sometimes she snacks all night and doesn't eat breakfast at all. But I guess two if she didn't?" The boy shrugs and steps onto the stool again, armed with a dinner knife, and begins slicing the berries.

"I'll eat whatever she doesn't," Emma says, sitting up and stretching. "I'm hungry as a polar bear."

"Hungry as a dinosaur," Henry chimes.

"Hungry as a wild Emma."

"Or a wild Henry!"

Robin chuckles as they continue their game, each suggestion sillier than the last, and tries to ignore the tiny pang shifting in his chest like a grain of sand caught between his toes. They're so close, the three of them. He misses this, being a part of a cohesive unit, a team, a family. If he and Marian had planned Roland while they were still married, what sort of rituals and rites would the three of them have formed? Pancake Mondays? Taco Tuesdays? Pillow Fort Fridays?

He knocks the wistful thoughts from his shoulders, and concentrates on keeping the toast from burning. He and Roland are starting to develop their own special things, and the thought of his son sends a sprightliness through his limbs. Roland will be here in less than a week, all his for an entire year.

"Robin, are you hungry, too?" Henry asks as he starts cleaning up the mess he'd made with the eggs, at Emma's behest.

Robin smiles, flips a piece of toast in the air twice. "Hungry as a fox in his den," he says just as the door opens and a weary Regina enters the apartment.

"What's this?" she asks, slightly dazed as Henry runs into her arms, knocking her back against the door with a gentle thump. She drops a kiss to the crown of his head, hugging him tight to her stomach. "You're awake early."

"We wanted to make you breakfast," Henry says, leaning back to smile at her. Regina smoothes his hair back out of his eyes and then slides her hand down to cup his chin as she rubs her nose against his. He squeals and covers his face with his palm, and Robin chuckles at the boy's, _Mo-om, you're like ice_ , as he scoots the last batch of their breakfast onto a bright red ceramic plate.

Regina laughs and tugs her son closer for another hug as she winks at Robin and then turns her attention to Emma, now upright and stretching as the makings of her impromptu bed drip off the couch. "I see you fell asleep during CSI again."

"Maybe," Emma says, halfheartedly smothering a yawn with the back of her hand.

"Come on. I'll set you a place." Henry tugs Regina's bags off her shoulder and pushes her toward the kitchen table. "Go sit."

"Hang on, I've been sitting all night. I think I'll stand for a bit," she says, and Emma seems to take the hint in her tone and cajoles him into helping her fold the blankets on the couch while his mother takes a moment to breathe.

Regina leans against the counter next to Robin. "Breakfast?"

"Breakfast," he repeats. "Henry's idea. Operation French Toast. I've a code name, too, which I am not to repeat to you under any circumstance. All very hush hush, you understand."

Her eyebrows lift as her mouth curls at the corners. "Well, well," she says. "An operation _and_ a code name after only six weeks of dating. I'm impressed."

He smiles at her, leans down to seize a brief kiss from her lips. "Of course I've also been threatened with exile should I do what I've just done in front of him. Because kissing is _disgusting_."

"That depends entirely on who is doing the kissing and where," she retorts, smiling. It's a small, wicked thing that heats his insides before her shoulders sag, the lightness melting from her face as she slumps back against the refrigerator. He watches as she pulls into herself, absently keeping an eye on Emma and Henry engaging in a small pillow fight with her throw pillows.

"How was your night?" he asks quietly, shifting the completed french toast from the counter to Henry's assembly station.

"Not bad. Not good," she amends with a one armed shrug. "Busy. The perps aren't as intimidated by the cold this year it seems."

He can understand that. With the change of seasons comes a change in the frequency and variety of patients he sees. It's not so different for her working at dispatch, he imagines. "Well I won't keep you long. Soon as the dishwasher is loaded I'll get out of your hair."

She stands up straight. "You're not going to stay?"

"I'll stay as long as you'd like, Regina. I don't want to be one more thing you have to worry about this morning."

"Stay," she says, her hand warm on his bicep. "Please."

"As the lady wishes." He lowers his forehead to hers, trying to infuse as much of his calmness, energy, and love into the touch as he can.

She hums, pecking his lips before pulling back to look at him. "So what did you do with your night off, Locksley?"

"Sat on my arse and played Halo 4 into the wee hours with the lads."

"Mm, and how are the Merry Men?"

"Undefeated, as always."

Emma wanders over and drapes herself over Regina's shoulder, which is a bit of a feat since she has a good three inches on his lady love on a bad day. "Mom, stop monopolizing the cook. We're hungry," she whines.

Regina chuckles and rolls her eyes, and when Henry bounds over with freshly washed hands, she shrugs and says she's ready when the food is, turning a questioning brow raise in Robin's direction.

"Which would be right about now," he says, moving the carton of milk to the island. "Breakfast is served, milady, good sir, milady."

He bows, flourishing the spatula before him, earning an eye roll from Emma and a good-natured, _So corny_ , from Henry as they start serving themselves, but he only has eyes for Regina. She's leaned up against the refrigerator again, arms crossed over her stomach, but her smile is warm and her eyes soft, and despite her utter exhaustion, the 'headset hair', as she calls it, and the rumpled shirt and jeans she relishes wearing on casual weekends she works, he wants nothing more than to scoop her up into his arms and kiss her senseless.

A desire she shares if he's not mistaken, swallowing hard as he follows her gaze tracing a path along his lips.

"Guys. _Guys_." Henry waves his fork between them, breaking the moment. "Making out with your eyes still counts as kissing in front of me."

"Henry," Regina scolds, mildly, eyes wide and an embarrassed smile on her lips. She pushes off the refrigerator and kisses her son's forehead. "Go sit down, please."

Once she's set about fixing her own plate of food, Robin winks at Henry, tossing him a thumbs up, which the boy, thankfully, returns with a wide grin. All is forgiven. "Seems our operation was a success, Sir Henry," he says, voice lowered.

"Yup." Henry gives him the once over, lips pursed, and then takes a quick peek at his mom as she drizzles syrup over her plate. "I guess you can stick around. You made her happy on a Sunday morning."

Robin smiles, wrapping the boy in a quick, one-armed hug. " _We_ made her happy. Now go on, eat the fruits of our hard earned labor."

As Henry scampers off to the table, plopping into a seat next to Emma, Robin walks over to the kitchen island and bumps his hip into Regina's. "You are happy, aren't you?" he asks, sliding the last three pieces of french toast onto his plate. "This was okay, my coming over here like this?"

She stops spooning strawberries and tilts her head back to look up at him. "This was perfect." Regina snakes an arm around his waist and tugs him close. "You're great with him, you know? With Henry."

"Well, I have been a father for all of fourteen months, I'll have you know," he says, puffing his chest out a bit, just to get a laugh out of her, and when it works and she squeezes that spot on his side that's ticklish he grins and bears it to see her smile and bite her lower lip. "You may have seven years on me, but I'm a quick study in 'cool'."

"Did my ears deceive me, or did my son call you corny not five minutes ago?" Regina raises her eyebrows as she slips away from him, rounding the kitchen island to join the rest of her family at the table.

Before he can retort, Emma stands and takes her empty plate to the sink. "New plan! Henry is gonna come spend the day with me while I pick out a new tv stand."

"What? Why?" Henry whines. "I hate shopping."

"Because I need something with space for my new Xbox One." Emma raises her eyebrows at Regina, still seated at the table, and Robin watches in fascination as they engage in a silent conversation that ends with Regina blushing and Emma smirking.

Henry spins around at the mention of the gaming system, one arm slung over the back of his chair. "Have I mentioned I have good taste in furniture? And I could probably help you hook up the console to the tv, too. You know. If you need help."

"Thank you, Henry, that would be great," Emma says, smirking at Robin. "We can head out once you're done eating, let your mom get some extra shuteye."

Henry turns and squashes his last piece of french toast into a cube and tries to stab it with his fork.

"Do not stuff that entire piece in your mouth, young man," Regina says, cutting her own breakfast into bite-sized squares one row at a time. "And you behave for Emma while you're out today, understood?"

"Yes ma'am." He lifts his fork and allows the bread to unfold with a syrupy thwack, grabbing his knife to start cutting ragged triangles.

Robin leans close to Emma and murmurs, "What just happened?"

"I bought you about fifteen minutes of alone time with the one and only Regina Mills before she passes out from exhaustion. You're welcome."

"Do you even need a new entertainment stand?"

Emma shushes him. "I don't _not_ need a new one. Now say, 'Thank you, Emma,' and go sit next to your girlfriend."

"Thank you, Emma." He pops a strawberry into his mouth. Slightly overripe, but still tasty.

"Don't mention it." Emma runs water in the sink while collecting syrupy dishes and crusted-over pans and utensils. "Just, if you stay over, don't be _in flagrante delicto_ when we get back this afternoon."

Robin chokes and sputters, accepting a glass of water from an unimpressed Emma once he recovers. "That's really not any of your business," he says once he can speak again.

"And it's not Henry's, either, so don't put him in the position to stumble upon it. You. Together. Like that." She groans and flicks suds at his shoulder. "Your food's getting cold."

"On my honor as a pediatrician, I would never scar a child in such a manner," he promises, dodging out of the way as she flicks a larger puff of suds at him.

Regina narrows her eyes as he pulls out a chair and sits. "What were you two biddies whispering about over there?"

"The cost/performance benefits of the PS4 versus the Xbox One."

"Mmhmm," Regina hums, glaring at Emma's back as she rinses the dishes and loads the dishwasher. "I don't know if you two being friends is such a good idea."

"Too late. He's already been accepted into my good graces," Emma says, nudging the half full dishwasher door up and closed with the heel of her foot. "You ready, kid?"

Henry nods, still chewing the last of his breakfast. He swallows audibly and washes everything down with a gulp of milk. "Yep! Can I bring my comic kit with me? Are we gonna have time to visit Marco's for more paper?"

Regina frowns. "I just bought you a blank book last month."

"I was struck by a thunderbolt of inspiration last weekend. You can't ignore the muse, Mom."

"Tell you what," Emma interjects. "If it's okay with your mom, you help me clean my apartment and I'll buy your next sketchbook." Emma glances to Regina, and at her nod, looks to Henry. "Deal?"

"Deal." Henry takes both his plate and Regina's to the sink and then runs down the hallway to his bedroom.

Robin continues to fork french toast into his mouth as Regina and Emma continue discussing their change of plans. Henry was right. It tastes much better with vanilla and cinnamon.

"Are you sure you want to spend your whole day and another night with him?" Regina tugs a half empty water bottle from a pouch on her work bag and drinks deep, the battered plastic crinkling as it collapses inward and then pops back out as she sets it on the table.

"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't. Besides, you look like burnt toast."

"Thanks."

"Plus, this way I get my apartment cleaned for cheap."

"Make sure he doesn't play video games all day, please."

"No prob. I got this covered."

"Thank you," Regina says again, sincere this time, leaning over to rest her head against the side of Robin's shoulder, her hand curling around his forearm. He stretches awkwardly to drop a kiss to the crown of her head, and she squeezes his arm in acknowledgement.

Emma and Henry leave not long after, she with her yellow bookbag and he with a black bookbag crawling with doodles in silver sharpie. Once they're alone in the apartment, Regina sighs. Her eyelashes flutter against his sleeve as her eyes droop.

"Shall I tuck you in and read you a bedtime story, then?" Robin asks. He traces the hills and valleys of her knuckles with his fingers and presses another kiss to her hair as she groans.

"One day, we will both have time off together when I'm not asleep on my feet or nursing a sick child or on the way out the door to chaperone a field trip."

"And on that day I'll likely be called into work or come home smelling like baby sick or my son will be a holy terror and unfit for company." He chuckles as she groans again and sits up.

"Aren't you mister optimistic."

"I'm calling it as I see it, love. Our relationship was never going to be an easy thing."

"No, you're right." Regina puffs a lock of hair out of her face and considers him, fretting her lower lip as a crease forms between her brows.

"What is it?"

"I'm trying to decide if I'm too tired to proposition you for sex."

Robin laughs, sitting back in his chair. Her bluntness never fails to delight and amuse him, though he's sure that will change the moment she turns it on him during a spat. They've not had any fights yet, not real ones anyway, and he's seen flickers of her temper enough over the years to be wary when mixing it with his own.

"I'll tell you what," he says, covering her hand on the table with his own. "You go get ready for bed. I'll finish cleaning up out here, and then come give you a kiss goodnight. We'll see where the night takes us from there, yeah?"

She narrows her eyes for a moment, lips pursed, and then she relents. "Okay."

Cleaning the remainder of breakfast takes little time, Emma having done most of the work while waiting for Henry to collect his things. He can still hear the water running in the hallway bathroom, the faint hum of an electric toothbrush, so he drops a detergent pack into the dishwasher, refills the rinse aid, and taps the "Pots and Pans" setting to start the wash. He's never run hers before, but the one in his unit never rinses completely unless it's on that particular one.

By the time he's finished puttering around the kitchen, the apartment is quiet, aside from the gentle hum of the water filtering into the dishwasher. He flicks off the overhead lights, but leaves the tiny lamp on the counter illuminated as he pads down the hallway to Regina's bedroom.

She's drawn the blackout curtains across the single window next to her nightstand, shutting out most of the encroaching Sunday morning. The moment he pads over the threshold, he knows there will be no post-french toast nookie today. She's already curled below the thick duvet, hair tied back in a stubby braid that just tickles the underside of her jaw as she snuggles into her pillow.

"Anything else I can do for you, love?" he asks as he kneels by the side of the bed, pressing a lingering kiss to her forehead.

Regina closes her eyes and sighs, a glimmer of a smile tugging the corners of her mouth. "You can park your ass in this bed and hold me." She yawns into the curve of her pillow and throws back the other side of the duvet. "I'm afraid I'd fall asleep in the middle of anything more exciting, and I can't really handle that level of mortification right now."

Robin snorts and squeezes her hand lightly before making his way to the other side of the bed. He strips to his boxers, leaving his clothes puddled just so on the floor in case he has to pull them on in a hurry, and setting an alarm on his phone before sliding it onto the side of the bed frame.

This is the first time he's ever spent the night, he realizes. There were a few weekdays when she'd come to his place while Henry was off at school, but him being here now, and on a weekend no less, feels like a bit of a milestone in their relationship. He smiles and tucks himself below the covers, rolling over to fold Regina into his embrace as requested.

"Hey," he says, surprised when his hands find the warm, soft skin of her belly where he expected the cotton of her sleep tank. He skims his palms down her sides, over the round swell of her hips, until he reaches her knees. "You're not wearing any clothing."

"Just because I'm too tired now doesn't mean I'll be too tired in the morning," she cheeks, tugging his hand away from her knee and planting it firmly on her chest. "And you're allowed to do this, now."

"What, this?" he asks, cupping her breast, giving it a gentle knead as he strokes his thumb over her nipple, light passes that match the quick little gasp that leaves her lips.

"Or this?" He lowers his head to plant a row of open mouthed kisses from the join of her shoulder and neck to the angle of her jaw, his cock stiffening further as a delicious, rumbly moan blooms under his ministrations.

"Definitely this, though," he says, pulling her close, tucking his knees into the bend of her hers, backing her hips into his, nothing suggestive, even though the effects of their play are obvious, and splaying his hand on her chest between her breasts, etching soothing patterns that dip down to just above her belly to quell the heat he'd briefly stirred up.

"Always," she says, one of her hands covering his own as he settles. She stretches for a moment, arching away from him, and then relaxing more completely into him.

Robin holds her a little tighter, adjusts them a little more so that he's lying partially on her pillow, and buries his nose in the nape of her neck, breathing her in. "G'night, love."

 _I love you_.

"G'night." Regina lifts his hand to her lips and kisses his knuckles. "And thank you for helping Henry with breakfast. It was lovely."

"My pleasure," he says, dropping one last press of his lips to her neck before settling in for a few hours rest.


End file.
